Page 80 of Positively Pricked

Chapter 27

I glanced toward the entrance, where Marco had disappeared only moments earlier.

Next to me, Zane was still sitting, which, like so many other things, caught me off guard. For some reason, I figured that Zane would've already been on his feet, hustling both of us toward the elevator.

But he wasn't.

Instead, he was watching the entrance with cool detachment, even as the sound of a thud, quickly followed by a crash, echoed from somewhere beyond our sight, probably in the hotel lobby.

I just had to ask, "What do you thinkthatwas?"

Zane's gaze remained on the entrance. "Don't know, don't care."

"I bet it was a plant," I said. "Or maybe one of those tall tables with a vase of flowers on top."

Zane's gaze shifted in my direction, but he made no reply. I didn't even know why I was babbling to him of all people, and yet, I couldn’t seem to make myself stop.

For some stupid reason, I just had to explain, "See, the thud would be from the table, and the crash would be from the vase." I hesitated. "Unless the vase was plastic."

Zane was still looking at me. "Plastic," he repeated.

I'd seen the vases on the way in. "Well, they didn't look like plastic," I said, "but you never know, right?"

Once again, Zane said nothing. He didn't have to, because his look said it all.Shut the hell up. I'm thinking.

I was still holding the two drinks. Desperate for something to do, if only to keep myself from blathering, I lifted the drink in my right hand and took a good, long pull.

Hello, Mimosa.

And yup, it was definitely alcoholic. Champagne and orange juice? Sothat'swhat a mimosa was. And why on Earth was I drinking on my first day on the job? Before noon, no less.

It wasn't good for businessormy stomach. And yet, I couldn’t resist taking another pull, even as I prayed that I'd be able to keep it down.

Zane said, "If you get drunk, I'm not holding your hair."

As if I'd let him.

I took a final, defiant slurp before setting the drink on the table. "You won't need to," I informed him.

He gave me a dubious look. "And why's that?"

"Because…" I smiled. "I've got a scrunchie in my purse." Oh, sure, the purse was upstairs, but that was beside the point.

His gaze shifted to my hair, which I'd worn loose today, letting it fall in waves over my shoulders. He didn't lookentirelydisgusted, but that was probably just the mimosa talking – tome, not him.

He was still looking at my hair. "What the hell is a scrunchie?"

"It's like a glorified rubber band."

Now, he looked disgusted. "A rubber band."

"Well yeah," I said, "but it's covered in cloth." I paused. "Or maybe it'smadeof cloth. Anyway, it's all thick and fluffy, so it doesn't pull your hair out in gobs." I cleared my throat. "Well, notyourhair. I mean,myhair…"

Yup, I was definitely blathering now. It was long past time to stop. Lamely, I finished by mumbling, "…because your hair's too short for a scrunchie." And with that, I clamped my lips shut and tried to pretend that the mimosa wasn't wreaking havoc on my nervous stomach.

He said, "You want breakfast?"

I gave a small shudder. "Not really."